I'm Talking About Life, Baby

   My brother Josh died ten years ago at this time, in a car accident in which, fortunately, only he was a part.  Josh was no stranger to chaotic auto travel.  Mom was an aimless, poor driver, who occasionally had notions that it would be a great family experience to drive us to different parts of Mexico.  During these trips, we would stay in the cheapest motels my mother could find, a process that usually involved lengthy negotiations in Spanish at various locations.  Either that, or we camped every time we found ourselves in a rural environment--my mother stayed in the car, smoking and screaming at us that the tent was lopsided. These vacations did not usually provide pleasant memories, but they had occasional moments of hilarity.

   On one occasion, my mother, Josh, my sister Ericka, and I had been traveling for hundreds of miles--or a thousand kilometers, depending upon how you looked at it--in the same direction.  We had a vague, yet determined notion that we would arrive at the Gulf of Mexico, and as dusk fell, we spotted a large body of water. Moments before, as we crossed through a thick patch of tropical woodlands, Mom suffered a meltdown, and began shouting, "I.......DON'T KNOW WHERE WE ARE GOING!!" Without skipping a beat, Josh piped up, "But that will never stop the Mueller family" in his radio announcer's voice.  My mother began laughing hysterically.  Josh often had that effect upon people.

   As we approached the town, we spotted the sign: Salina Cruz.  It was the classic bucolic little town on the seaside, such as you might find anywhere. There were even gulls wheeling overhead. "Look at the map!" my mother said excitedly.  'Find out where we are!"

   After some scrutiny, it became clear--we were not on the Gulf of Mexico; we had somehow found our way to the Pacific Ocean.  No, there were not two towns named Salina Cruz--I checked to make sure. At some point, we had turned right instead of left, and headed south instead of north.  Well, that certainly made sense.  After all, the four of us were right-handed.

   We were at the beach, at least, and that meant we could go swimming.  We checked into the first cheap hotel we could find, skipping the usual comparison-shopping process, and put on our bathing suits.  My mother was sullen and quiet as we approached the beach.  For some reason, I wasn't as excited as usual. Suddenly, we saw a sign, written in both Spanish and English.  It explained that the beach was closed for an indefinite period of time. Looking more closely at the water, we could see why.  The waveless surface was covered with a thick, dull coating of oil.

   There would be no swimming in the ocean that evening.  We walked back to the hotel, and decided to make an early night of it.  In the morning, we had a delicious breakfast in a waterfront cafe, while we stared at the ocean. "It's a damn shame about that oil" my mother said. "That goddamn oil ruined our vacation."

   Well, it certainly had, there was no denying it.  Back at the motel, we threw our bags into our car, then drove to the highway.  For at least two hours, we drove in relative silence.  Then, suddenly, Josh tapped me on the shoulder.  I turned around from my front seat perch, and stared at him. "What?" I asked, annoyed.

  "The girl in the berry patch" he said solemnly.

   I had no idea what he was talking about.  "What?" I asked.

  "The girl in the berry patch" he insisted.  "She's more special.  More special than you."

   I was truly mystified, and entirely out of patience.  Jerking around even more in my seat, I demanded, "What are you talking about?!"

   Josh was completely calm.  He smiled at me, and with infinite patience, he said, "I'm talking about life, baby."

   To this day, I have no idea what he meant, and no way of ever finding out.